


Under The Sycamore Tree

by Go0se



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragons, He gets better. Kind of., Knight Patrick Stump, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pete Wentz is a creepy creep as per canon, Rescue Missions, That Isn't How Courting Works
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:10:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go0se/pseuds/Go0se
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick Stump is a bard who used to be a knight. Used to. Currently he's content with his instruments, home, and friends. He'd happily never go out on knight business again.<br/>Unfortunately for him, Duke Wentz (more properly His Grace the Duke of Chicagoland Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III) keeps attracting trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Sycamore Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me if any formatting/grammar/spelling is out of place! For a bandom meme prompt, back in June: "Patrick/Pete, Pete is a damsel in distress, and Patrick is constantly having to rescue him (from dragons, from pirates, from zombies, whatever)."  
> To whoever requested it, sorry it took so long holy hell. I hope this is sufficient.
> 
> //

 

The decree was printed on paper so fine as to be almost fabric. The wax seal of the king-- an ornate orange goblin head—held it closed. Inside, ink flowed grandly over the page.

 

 _“SIR PATRICK MARTIN STUMP, MINSTREL_  
_Your Services Are Required_  
_to retrieve His Grace, the Duke of Chicagoland Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, from the clutches of a dragon where he has found himself due to unfortunate circumstances. You will return His Grace to the great hall of the Great Castle in centreville by sunset seven days from now, well and in well spirits and unburnt. Your services will be honoured._  
  
_-On Decree of His Majesty King Hurley IV, Ruler of Chicagoland and Surrounding Counties, Protector Of The Sylvan and Tamer Of Roks-”_

 

The page hovered nearby, smiling when Patrick looked up from reading. “What did it say?” He blurted, and then rocked back on his heels while shaking his head. “No, don't tell me, nevermind. I shouldn't ask.”

Patrick found that his mouth was open a little, so he closed it. Technically it was a private matter between him and the king. Realistically, most of the castle knew the message before Patrick had. The news getting out into the commons wasn’t too much of a worry either-- there was a slow trickle of people passing by on the market path behind him and Brendon, but no one was sparing more than a glance towards them. The little natural alcove amidst wild honeysuckle and thornbushes that they stood in protected them from more prying eyes. Also, it was hardly a secret that His Grace had been absent from public dinners in the castle courtyard for the past three nights. Everyone in the center of town could see the claw marks underneath a window at his villa, too.  
“It’s fine, Brendon,” Patrick said. “I'm-- the king’s called on me to rescue the duke..”  
The page laughed out loud. “That's amazing!” He said, and then physically clapped a hand over his mouth. “I mean, uh.”  
Shaking his head with a small smile, Patrick rolled up the scroll and stuck it under the frame of the lyre he was carrying on his back. “I understand. It does sound pretty exciting.” He paused, feeling for his hip pouch. He needed to write a reply note, but-- “I don't have parchment with me.”  
“Don’t worry! I have really good memory, everyone at the castle knows, if you tell me something I'll be able to tell them it exactly.” Brendon straightened his posture importantly. The top of his head brushed the honeysuckle’s leaves.  
“Oh, good. Tell him I accept, then,” Patrick said. “Uh-- I graciously accept this... I graciously accept this. And I will.” He was tempted to add 'try my utmost' but cut himself off, nodding firmly. “That's all.”

Brendon nodded, giving him a salute. Then he dropped the official posture for a second. “Have a good day, Patrick,” he said smiling.

Patrick smiled back, and watched as the page boy stepped into the lane and sped away. Brendon wove between milling shoppers and wanderers with long-practiced ease. A few people looked over their shoulders in his wake, following the natural path he'd made through the crowd to where Patrick was standing, and specifically to the tip of the fine scroll that showed above his shoulder.

Patrick nodded at these people and turned on his heel. As soon as he was sure he was out of earshot of anyone, he sighed. "I'm sure it _sounds_ exciting."

 

He fretted and stewed all the way to his cottage on the edge of town.  
Getting inside his home again brought some relief. Here, at least, he was certain of everything. Patrick put his lyre--and the scroll with it--in the lyre’s regular place by the front door, and then made a conscious choice not to bother with it until at least after supper. There was plenty to be done in the meantime.   
His home was small and simple. He could walk from wall to outside wall in about ten steps; his entryway, kitchen, living space with fireplace and chair, and (up a short staircase) his bedroom were all fitted with basic furnishings and not much else. It still got untidy and in disrepair like any other place, though. Living alone meant that he needed to do all the upkeep himself. Patrick didn’t much mind.  
He set to work, starting at the entryway. He dusted off his boots and put them in their proper place; lit the candles on the windowsill against the shadows of the afternoon; put milk out for the pixies, some small cubes of fat and spare meat for the stray, and spare seed out for the birds; swept the stone floor in the kitchen to working order again. Then he fixed himself dinner, washing the pot and spoon he was done.  
He carried the wash bucket outside to pour the mess water into the grass. While he was out there he fed the chickens and his patient cow Laura-Anne, checked the fence around the chicken’s coop, and made sure the outhouse’s door still latched properly. It’d need a new roof soon, but that could wait.  
Back inside Patrick sat down at his small wooden table to actually eat the soup he’d made. Afterwards he wiped his bowl and set it aside for morning.  
Then he poured himself a glass of cider and went to the one area of his home kept with care-- his instrument collection. He went through them all, dusting and tuning and gently repairing any paint cracks or broken strings, while sipping his cider and humming to himself intermittently.   


By the time Patrick had cleaned and restored all of them to an inch of their lives, the afternoon shadows had deepened into evening ones. He stood and went into the kitchen, took one last drain on his cider glass, then set it regretfully on the narrow wood shelf.  
 

Putting it off longer would only make his nerves worse. Taking a deep breath, he retrieved the scroll from the front door. He dropped it on the table instead of placing it carefully, affording it about half as much respect as such a beautiful document really deserved. The goblin seal seemed to judge him.  
He unrolled it again, flipping it over so he could see-- there it was--the map to where he was supposed to make the rescue. The most frequented locations (and largest keeps) of all the dragons in the area had been carefully noted and kept record of since before Patrick could remember, along with the local ghoul hauntings and gryphon hatcheries and the like, just in case a situation like this arose. The route he’d take would lead him out of town, through the southern forest and to the lair of the dragon that held the Duke captive.  
_The outward journey will take two days by flight and ride, if unhindered,_ read a note in tight letters at the bottom of the page.  
So they’d be giving him a mount. That made his planning a little easier. Patrick tapped the map with his fingernail, his head filling up with the contents of his cupboards and calculations of how much he would need to get there and back, with allowances for carrying weight and the need to feed two people on the return trip.  
  
He fished a quill and piece of rough paper out of a drawer and spent a couple minutes writing up a list of things to pack.

 

Then, with another sigh, he stood and went upstairs to his bedroom. He knelt to reach to the bottom shelf he’d hammered into the walls of the house, which was really just a specific section of the floor, and pulled out his old training armour from beside the folded linens. He coughed a little at the dust, waving it away. They were also fine things he should probably treat better, but he hadn’t used them in a long time.  
He’d rather not be using them again.

 

Going into the knighthood had been a path to education for him.  
He’d grown up on a wheat farm outside Chicagoland. He had several cousins, but no sisters or brothers of his own. Growing up he’d played with the other farmer’s children or by himself. When he turned nineteen, his mother and father-- bless their souls—had passed the house and fields to him. Both of them had sickened soon after.  
They’d put some gold pieces away for him before they died. He was pretty sure they’d intended for him to use it for a wedding to a partner he hadn’t met yet. Having a spouse to co-run the farm with would be a huge help, obviously. But...  he hadn’t wanted the rest of his personal life to be based on a business choice. Even if he used the gold to hire a farmhand, there’d be no way to afford long-term workers, and no way to manage the farm himself.  
… there was more reasons. Patrick loved his family and he’d grown up knowing every inch of soil and stone on the lot, but he’d wanted to wake up to something other than dawn over the same trees and fields each day. He wanted to see what he could. He wanted to hear more music. He knew he was being selfish, but why not be selfish? The whole farm was his to do with as he saw fit, now.  
So he’d sold it to their neighbour’s grown daughter and her wife, with the stipulation that they would keep his family’s house in good repair and give him one calf and one lamb every season. They had agreed.  
With that arranged, Patrick had packed up his belongings, used some of his parent’s gold to buy a horse, and into the city he’d went.

He’d heard that the royal army had been looking for new squires for the knights, and possibly for training to later _become_ knights. Patrick hadn’t been sure he was qualified at first. He knew how to read, but not very well. He hadn’t known at all how to fight except in dancing hall scraps brought on by young men with too much barley brew in their stomachs. But he was in relatively good health, strong from years tilling fields, and more than willing enough to learn. According to the hiring man at the castle that was enough. “If you can’t make it through your training, we’ll know you’re unqualified,” the man had said with a laugh.  
Patrick had made it through his squire training. He’d apprenticed at the castle for one year, then graduated into actual knighthood training that lasted for a second year. It had been hard work. Dangerous too, more often than not; Patrick had come close to death more than once. It was useful work though. Being a knight was useful to Patrick personally, as well, since the castle had leisures available to trainees. That meant that, while nursing injuries or just waiting to be summoned, Patrick had access to the castle’s library and blacksmithery and (most key to him) its music room. He’d learned to appreciate and play anything he could get his hands on.

After completing his knightly certifications, and then the required year and a day of service, Patrick had decided he was more suited to music than heroics.  
He'd left the knighthood honourably and in good favour. Barding had served him well ever since.  
He was happy. Frankly, he had no idea why King Hurley was summoning him instead of any of the other knights. Surely one of them would have been better suited.

   
He couldn't ignore a royal decree, though. And besides, now that he'd been asked to help someone who might be in real danger he couldn't very well say no.

   
That didn't mean he had to be jumping for joy about it. “Apparently duty calls,” he muttered.  
He pulled his royal blue knight’s tunic smooth on top of his bedcovers and huffed to himself again. Hopefully the tabard still fit him right.

 

*

 

The next day he set off.

  
He visited the castle stable first. The sight and smell—white painted wood, hay and animals and flowers from the conveniently placed gardens outside--settled his nervousness for a while. He’d spent a good amount of time in here when he’d been a squire. In the middle of the strangeness of the city, with the food and people and classes all so different from what he’d grown up with, being around the animals had been a relief. He knew what he was doing around them. All they’d needed was work.  
Patrick greeted some of the people streaming in and out of the many doors by name, smiling when they exclaimed at him and how long he'd been away. When he was about halfway through the barn one of his old training mates, Greta, stopped him with a wave. "Are you back on the force, then?" She asked, smiling. She was wearing her army tabard too, though it was rumpled like she had spent a long time on the road recently.  
"Not really. Just answering a summons," Patrick said. He laughed when she made an exaggeratedly disappointed face. "I might come around and visit, when I come back," he added.  
"When you come back," Greta agreed. "Hopefully I'll see you in the halls!" Greta raised an imaginary glass to him, then yawned. "Speaking of, I'd better go back to my own. Safe travels, sir."  
"Safe travels." Patrick waved her goodbye.   
He patted a couple of nearby horses on their velvety noses, and then made his way to the knight’s section of the building. It had moved since he had been there last, but was still easy to find. He followed the sound of bird calls.   
Hippogriffs were loyal, intelligent, and once grown they were their own defense against thieves, which was why the royal army favoured them. They were also incredibly  obstinate at times, difficult to train, and quick to harsh judgements, which was why the royal army kept strict watch on all local hatcheries and only allowed trained knights to work with them fully grown. Patrick had been awed to the point of a daze when he’d first seen one. Now, though he still wasn’t _used_ to them in the sense of being used to doing chores, their presence felt more commonplace. He nodded to a couple individuals he recognized as he walked through the aisles between pens. They nodded back, some of them chirping a greeting.    
  
The stablehands ended up giving Patrick Epona for the journey. He was happy about that; she was the first mount he’d ever trained with, and they’d bonded during the long hours alone on missions. Her companionship had been one of the only things he’d missed about his knight days. She seemed happy to see him, too.

They had a pleasant flight out together. It didn’t rain either night, so they slept without a tent. Epona gracefully let Patrick lean against her warm side so they could both watch the stars.

  
  
*

When morning came they took the sky again. As they passed over a forest interspersed with sun-bleached rockfaces, which looked obvious from above, Patrick nudged Epona to land.

  
The particular dragon Patrick was to face hadn't even bothered not being seen when it'd snatched the Duke. Its lair was underground in the forest, and the only access point from the surface was a rather stereotypical cave mouth at the top of a hill. It didn’t take very long for them to find.  
The cave stood open about twice and a half times as tall as a person at its highest, maybe four people wide. They would make it more difficult to get through for them. They could manage, though, if she folded her wings. Patrick was grateful it had significant height at all as he rode up to it. Any day he didn't have to crawl in mud was a decent day.  
At the top of the hill he slowed Epona to a walk. She started to dance nervously as they got closer to the looming mouth. Being a sensible hippogriff, she hated going underground.  
Patrick didn't exactly blame her. Truthfully, his own nerves had come creeping back over the morning, too. She was a good steed, brave and fast and reliable, and he knew very well that, this time as well as all the other times they’d gone out, he could be condemning her to a painful death. But there was nothing else for them to do. “I'm sorry,” he said, leaning to smooth down her neck feathers which had begun to puff up. “We gotta go in. Come on.” He clucked his tongue, nudging her forward. “We have a job to do.”

  
A little begrudgingly, she folded her wings and started into the cave.

  
The air got danker as they descended. The sound of Epona’s steps bounced all around them, up and down the uneven path. The sunlit forest outside the cave mouth grew smaller and smaller behind them. Within a couple of minutes there was hardly any light.  
The path was too narrow for Patrick to walk beside her. He could get off of her back and walk ahead of her, but if she stumbled then both of them would go down. At least if he stayed where he was and she fell, she would have less of a chance of accidentally crushing him.  
Patrick leaned forward and then stayed leaned forward, squinting into the gloom. He kept a steadying hand on Epona’s neck.  
Epona kept uncharacteristically quiet about the gesture, as put off about this place as he was. She was osprey-haploid, which meant her eyesight was usually much better than Patrick's, but not in the dark. Patrick didn’t want to think about how trapped she must feel.  
“I’ll get us out of here,” he promised her quietly.  
She called back to him equally quietly in acknowledgement, almost a chirp of a sound.

   
When the light from the entrance of the cave disappeared entirely, Patrick tapped Epona to halt. He dismounted and patted her side, feeling around until he touched the woven wool of her harness instead of feathers. The harness was meant to ease the physical strain on the rider, since no hippogriff would endure a horse saddle, but were also useful for carrying small items without having to bring extra bags. Epona’s harness in particular was covered with buckles, pockets, pouches, and loops for attaching anything else that might be needed. Several mid-sized pockets were stitched into the section of wool over her shoulder. They clinked gently when Patrick nudged them with his hand. He unbuttoned one, pulling out a delicate glass sphere about the size of an apple. He shook it.  
The sphere glowed, softly at first, then brighter. In seconds his fingers look like they surrounded a small blue star and the path ahead of them was clear again. Patrick smiled.  
The lantern had been a present from Gabe, an alchemist in town and a friend to Patrick. He’d offered three for half the price he usually sold them when he heard Patrick was back on the job. They were always good-quality work. Even half-off they were expensive, though; Patrick hoped it would last as long as he remembered.  
Epona trilled appreciatively at the light. “I’ll pass on your compliments,” Patrick said. He buckled the lantern into the front of Epona's harness, then climbed again onto her back and nudged her forward.

 

Deeper and deeper they went. Moss grew heavy and dappled on the walls. Every so often the lantern light shone off of spider webs, eerily beautiful stretched across the path. Epona did her best to avoid these, but sometimes Patrick had to cut them apart with his sword. They both endured the sticky strands that fell on their faces and shoulders; trying to brush them off would be futile until they got out of here. Thankfully there were no spiders to be seen.   
The tunnel twisted more times than Patrick could count, one winding sinuous route. The ceiling sloped steadily lower until Patrick had to lay almost flat on Epona's back, still craning his neck to see ahead of them. It didn’t take long for his muscles to start cramping up badly. He rested his sore neck on the side of Epona’s shoulder when his head felt like it'd fall off if he didn't. He hated small spaces.  
When the world started to spin slowly around him he took off his helmet. Being without it made him feel exposed, but he could breathe easier. With a dragon as an opponent it wouldn’t be a headshot that would kill him, anyway.  
Probably. Despite all his training, Patrick had never seen a dragon before. He wasn’t sure what natural weapons it would have, exactly, other than teeth and claws. He wondered what it would look like. If it really had fire in its throat.  
There was a folktale he knew of three blind peasants who happened upon a dragon in a forest and tried to explain to each other what it was they had found. Its sides were a canvas tent; its outstretched leg a sturdy log; its breath from an open-air butchery and its mouth a hot rack full of knives.   
_If I get out of this,_ Patrick thought, _I’ll write a song. So people know what a dragon actually looks like.  
_ He knew he’d have to defeat the dragon to get the duke out, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to kill it. Even if it’d attacked the duke, it hadn’t brought any other destruction—it easily could’ve. And Patrick hated killing things.

  
He could tell when they reached the dragon's lair properly because the ground started crunching underfoot. Patrick resisted the urge to look down.

  
Abruptly, the ceiling fell away from their heads again. Cold air sank down from above them, and the close sounds of their breathing and footsteps suddenly warped into echoes.   
Patrick sat up slowly. His muscles finally getting to relax felt good, but the thought of a ceiling that high, and how far it must mean they were underground, made him almost dizzy again. He kept the thoughts to himself for Epona's sake.  
She seemed relieved, standing taller and stretching her wings out, tossing her head clear of the sticking spiderweb fragments. 

Patrick stayed a minute for both of them to stretch, then urged her forward.

 

Stalagmites and half-walls glittered in the lantern's light. Water dripped steadily somewhere. The smell of dirt and fresh water mixed with the unpleasant, old miasma of what must be under their feet. The ground continued to crunch when Epona moved forward.  
It was a lair: dark and cold. Nothing more, Patrick told himself.  
In the distance something flickered. Firelight. _We must be in a cavern,_ Patrick thought, _if I can see all that way_. Then: _this is it. The dragon must live here._ He slid out of the harness’ seat while minding his hold on Epona's feathers, placing his hand on the side of her left forequarter when he was safely on solid ground.  
She leaned into his touch, acknowledging his dismount silently.   
Patrick took a minute to slow his breathing. All through the ride down, old lessons had been coming back into his head one by one.  _Approach with caution._  
He reached to the front of Epona's neck and took the lantern out of the buckle on her harness, dropping it to the floor behind them. It shattered into dust with barely a whisper, the glow going out at once.  
  
Together they walked left until they found a wall (damp and uneven), then followed its curve forward. The firelight’s pool grew larger in front of them.

   
Eventually they found their path blocked by a hill of scree that ran like a spine along the cave, perpendicular to the wall. It separated the cave into two areas: the cavern itself on one side of the scree, and a small alcove on the left. Conveniently, the very place where the firelight was coming from.   
Epona and Patrick stepped away from the wall, following the side of the hill as quietly as they could. As they got closer to the light Patrick felt his breath slow, and Epona’s as well. Soon enough it was right in front of them.  
The hill curved in such a way that, looking into the alcove’s pool of brightness, Patrick could remain hidden but see into it.  
 

Duke Wentz sat there, leaning on bare rock as he talked to someone across from him who was blocked from view by the gravel. His voice echoed in the rounded alcove, and his gestures cast stretched shadows on the wall. The flickers of firelight lit his brown face, dark eyes and expensive clothes warmly. He seemed like he might be cold without the fire, since he didn't wear a wool coat or cloak on his shoulders, only a grey silk shirt (marking his class) with billowing sleeves. But he wasn’t visibly harmed or scorched, and was apparently in good spirits. His Grace seemed quite comfortable against the wall of the cave, breathing in air that was mostly smoke.  
“They're amazing creatures,” he finished whatever he’d been saying, settling his hands on his knees once more. “He has the right idea to look after them.”  
Someone hummed in what might have been agreement. For a second there was a lull of speech except for the fire's crackling.

 

Patrick frowned, trying to push down a spike of worry tinged with anger. Since when was there another kidnappee? Maybe the dragon had struck again the morning he left. Two people to rescue made an escape more complicated. Epona could carry a couple of humans to safety, certainly, but Patrick wasn't certain about three.  
  
He risked another couple of steps around the gravel hill. As he did, his boot hit a bone which gave with a conspicuous _crack._

Patrick froze; Epona froze behind him, her chest feathers puffing immediately. Keeping one hand lightly on Epona's shoulder and the other skimming the gravel hill Patrick backpedaled as quietly as he could, stepping heel-to-toe backwards across what he already knew was safe ground.

 

But it was too late. In the firelit alcove, the natural lull had become a tense silence. Duke Wentz stood up in a crouch with one hand on the wall behind him, looking confused.

 

A sudden breeze rushed by Patrick. Panic gripped him, followed swiftly by confusion: they were underground, deep underground, there were no _sudden breezes_ here--   
Then Patrick didn't haven't the time to panic about it, because with a long low hiss the firelight darkened and went out.

 

A huge scraping, a slithering, filled the cavern in front of them and everywhere. Patrick sensed more than saw the darkness unfolding itself in the huge shadowed space in front of him. He stumbled backwards, Epona moving with him with an alarmed squawk.  
The dragon’s breathing was like muted thunder.  Patrick fumbled on Epona's shoulder pocket again, while his shaking right hand found the hilt of his sword. When his fingers closed on another glass sphere he grabbed it tightly. If he surprised the dragon with sudden light, and a defensive move at the same time, he might have a slight advantage.  
He spun around with a shout, raising his sword and the lantern into the air both at once. 

  
For a minute the sight held him still.

 

It was huge. The lantern’s light flooded into the cave, but the beast kept moving sinuously in and out of shadow. Its underbelly was iridescent-- not scaly, but leathery. The hiss and scrape that Patrick had heard a second before must have been it sliding over the rock.  
_Invulnerable to points,_ his old captain said at the back of his thoughts. It was a faint voice. Patrick was suddenly sweating bullets all down his back, and his knees shook.    
The dragon’s skin was tough-looking and striped in long slim rows, from the underbelly up to its neck and presumably meeting the head which Patrick couldn't see, up near the ceiling which was also out of sight. 

Suddenly the creature’s neck flowed smoothly down until Patrick found himself staring into the dragon’s face .  
Shock momentarily overrode Patrick’s fear. He thought, _horsefeathers_ : he was looking into the long, sturdy-boned face of a horse that was covered with smooth tawny feathers instead of fur. Magnified two or three times, of course: the dragon’s jaw was about as long as Patrick’s entire torso. Its feathers grew more erratic and puffed near the crown of its head, then evened out again as they grew down its neck. Whatever the rest of it looked like was still lost in shadow.  
Its eyes caught the lantern’s light. Both the size of a potter’s wheel, but separate colours: one field green, the other brown-honey and gold,  small rings around pools of black.The eyes were always the weak spot in hunting diagrams, the least protected.  
In the supreme clarity of the moment, Patrick realized he was focusing on the eyes and feathers so he could avoid having to look at the creature’s _teeth._ The dragon had curled its muzzle, revealing a row of serrated-edged, slightly yellowed knives, each as long as Patrick’s forearm.  
Despite its implicit threat, the creature didn’t seem threatened. It wasn’t growling or snarling. Its endless movement didn’t seem to be defensive. If anything, the dragon seemed curious.

  
Even in its curiousity it was terrifying. _The Duke,_ Patrick thought, and did not run _._ His hand tightened on his sword.   
He hadn’t thought that he’d actually moved but the dragon’s great eyes shifted from whatever it’d been looking at before to Patrick’s blade, thinning to a sliver until most of the eyes were colour. The great head moved away and up into the darkness so fast that _Patrick_ was almost dizzy—

And then his ears split open.  
The roar was so loud that he lost his heartbeat in it.  The walls rang with it--  he damn near lost his footing, tripping backwards— he dropped the lantern and felt it shatter on top of his foot, barely registering it as his hands flew to his ears. He grit his teeth against the noise. Fury rose in his chest, sudden and sharp, and he felt like nothing more than to scream back.  
  
Epona reared beside him, the wind from her beating wings rushing over his head as she shrieked a challenge into the echoes.  
_No,_ Patrick thought a little incoherently, a new kind of fear flooding through him. Even army-trained hippogriffs were prideful to a dangerous fault: they'd respond to direct to direct challenges with their life. He had no doubt she would take flight here, in the dark unfamiliar territory, against an enemy far larger and faster than her, rather than back down now. She’d get herself killed.    
As Epona’s talons hit the cold stone floor with a clang, Patrick threw his empty hand out blindly. His fingers reached over Epona’s shoulder and onto her harness’ left side. He hooked his fingers in and took a deep breath. Throwing yourself onto a angry hippogriff was never something that was recommended, but he didn’t have any other choice.

 

Epona protested with an angry squawk when she felt him land on her back and prevent her from taking off. “Wait,” Patrick called out to her, not sure how loud or quiet he was talking. The ringing aftereffect of the road was still washing out most other noise in his head; it felt like he had cloth stopping up his ear. “We need a plan--”  
  
From above them there was a noise that sounded like… a snort?  Very much like a laugh. Patrick looked up in confusion, still holding onto Epona’s shoulder. _What?  
_ The leather-over-cobblestones noise sounded again, this time faster, and three cracks of thunder in quick succession, and a huge rush of wind--

 

And they were alone.  
  
  
The dragon’s breathing that had taken up most darkness in front of them was gone, its wing beats getting fainter in the distance, leaving only yawning space.  
For a moment Patrick stayed frozen.

 

When it didn't return, Patrick closed his eyes and swore loudly.  
The fight-or-flight reflex dropped out of him all at once, and he felt exhausted. He dropped his sword hand and then sheathed the blade, leaning back in the harness seat.    
“-- _agh_! Ugh.” He stretched his tense fingers against his thighs and winced when they cracked, then sat back up again. “You did good,” he said to his friend, rubbing Epona’s ears which had been flat to her head. "But let me know first before you try that last part again, alright?"  
She relaxed slightly at his reassuring, shifting on her feet. She trilled an answer that could be affirmative or negative.    
Patrick laughed, passing a hand over his face. He swallowed.  “Did you see, its feet moved like shadows when it--”

 

“Hello,” Duke Wentz’s voice said from behind them.

 

Patrick froze again, his hand still on his forehead. _Fuck_ , he thought tightly.  
Somehow, in the adrenaline rush of the fight, he had literally forgotten exactly who he was supposed to be rescuing here. Swearing in the presence of nobility was not something knightly to do.  
He’d need to pretend it never happened. Leaning sideways, he fumbled into the pockets on Epona’s harness again. The lantern he grabbed lit up a soft rose. (He’d need to ask Gabe for more than three, if he ever went on another mission after this one.) He turned towards the sound of the voice. “Your Grace,” he said, mustering up the respectful yet direct tone that was proper when speaking to nobility. “I’m-- ah-- I’m here to rescue you.”  
“Are you,” the duke said. He was standing close to Epona on her left side, with his hands on his hips. Standing, the rest of his clothing was easier to see than it had been in the alcove. His finely-made green pants and red leather boots would be suitable for riding, at least, if not his shirt. He grinned up at Patrick. (He was quite handsome, Patrick thought inappropriately, and probably not at all fooled by Patrick’s cover-up attempt.)   
“Yes. My name is Stump. I have the scroll the king sent, requesting my services,” he added. Every knight knew that it was important to bring documentation to a rescue, so the person in distress understood they weren’t walking into another kidnapping. He pulled the goblin-head-sealed decree from his belt, trying very hard to look knightly and not like someone who’d sworn rudely only a minute before.  
 “I see.” Duke Wentz accepted the scroll and unrolled it perfunctorily, not even reading it all the way through before nodding and passing it back up to Patrick.  “You have a beautiful bird, Patrick Stump,” he said.  
Epona shifted on her talons and preened her front feathers, pleased. “Thank you,” Patrick replied. “We’ve been together since I first graduated the academy.”  
“Wonderful.” The duke stepped back a little, as if to better admire the hippogriff in front of him. “You two work so well as a team, I’m not surprised.”  
Patrick smiled politely. "Thank you," he said again.  
Honestly, he was getting a little suspicious of this whole situation. The duke seemed in pretty high spirits for someone who’d been kidnapped. He had an air of great charm around him-- not magic, but the mundane kind that had to be practiced and built and was all the more dangerous for it. Plus he _had_ been talking to someone in that rocky alcove, someone who was now nowhere to be seen.

 

“I didn’t think they’d send a knight,” Duke Wentz said conversationally. He ran his fingers through his short curly hair. “They usually don't.”  
It occurred to Patrick that sitting on a mount while someone of higher class than him stood on their feet was incredibly rude. Hastily, he climbed off of Epona. “Yes, well,” he managed while he dismounted.  
The duke nodded. “I figured a court magician or a guard,” he further explained with a smile. “Gruff, professional. Not nearly as cute.”  
That was… forward. Patrick blinked. He was suddenly grateful for the hue of the particular lantern he was holding. In the red glow it would be significantly harder for Duke Wentz to tell if his face was reacting how Patrick felt like it was. _He must be mocking me._  
”The king decided I was the one for the job ,” Patrick responded, a little stung. He still wasn’t sure _why_ the king had selected him for it but like hell he was going to mention that.   
  
He needed to finish the job. “Let’s get you back to centreville, your Grace,” he said as formally as possible. “The king expressed great concern with your safe-- and speedy-- return.”  
“Right, right,” the duke agreed. He rubbed the elbows of his thin shirt and looked around. “Which way is the exit?”  
“There,” Patrick said, gesturing towards where he and Epona had walked in. “The journey back will be about two days by flight. You can ride behind me. If you wouldn't mind, of course--”   
The duke nodded. “I’d be honoured,” he said. Then he stepped in front of Epona and, unexpectedly, gave her a bow.  
Epona and Patrick shared a brief raised eyebrow—or, Patrick raised his eyebrow, and Epona did the hippogriff equivalent. Epona was a good fighting partner and a good friend to Patrick, but she was an army mount. Bowing was something you’d reserve for royalty. Clearly the duke hadn’t actually interacted with many knights before, or hippogriffs, for all he carried himself like he knew everything about anything it was possible to understand. Still, it wouldn’t be good for either of them if they pointed out the duke's mistake. Epona regarded the human in front of her for a long, calculating moment-- and then she bent her left foreleg and inclined her head, just enough to be noticeable.  
The duke laughed once, wonderingly, then stood up. "She likes me," he said, pleased.  
_That's her job,_ Patrick thought. "She is very accommodating, your Grace." Patrick replied. He patted Epona's forequarters as a small ‘thank you’ for not laughing at the gentry.

She made a contented and vaguely feline sound back at him, then puffed her wings importantly and shifted so the stirrup on her harness was in clearer view.   
"You'd better go on first," Duke Wentz said graciously.  
"... yes." With a informal apologetic kind of expression--or what he hoped was that-- Patrick climbed into his seat, then turned to face his soon-to-be-passenger. The duke was looking up at him with a grin again.  
“If you please, your Grace,” he said formally, still firmly ignoring the leftover heat in his face. The sooner he and Epona got this job done and got away from the duke’s smile, the better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feather dragons! *jazzhands*  
> Additional fun fact, if you think that Pete's outfit sounded familiar you might have had the same childhood stories as me. I stole it directly from Prince Ronald's outfit in The Paper Bag Princess by Robert Munsch. Because reasons. ... *additional jazzhands*


End file.
